On the Back of a Broken Dream
by IronAmerica
Summary: Miles Matheson hasn't seen his niece and nephew in almost a decade. He's not going to give them up again.


Hey, it's a new story! Miles is badass. Do not mess with his family.

Un-beta'ed, so quibble away.

- o – o -

On the Back of a Broken Dream

_One_

Miles hadn't thought about his brother in years.

It wasn't because he didn't like Ben, but he _had_ been busy with other things. There was the military of a republic to run, a republic to keep afloat, and so many other things he had to deal with. He'd never been one for paperwork. He'd hated politicking—that had always been Bass' forte anyways. The Republic took up too much of his time either way.

When the report from Captain Neville, exiled to the outer borders of the Republic due to his son's stupidity, Miles thought about burning it out of spite. Instead, he sat down at his desk and poured himself a generous amount of whiskey. Dealing with Neville's pedantic, nit-picking approach to reports required inebriation. _Serious_ inebriation.

He cracked the seal on the package and tipped it out. Instead of a neatly bound report with bookmarks sticking out to mark what Neville had decided were the relevant pages, a journal fell out. Miles raised an eyebrow and knocked the whiskey back before opening the journal.

Miles began choking on his drink as soon as he began reading the pedantic, graphic details.

By the time he reached the end of the journal, Miles was prepared to burn down everything that stood between him and Sylvania Estates.

_Two_

Bass understood what Miles was going through, after he read the journal. He was, at least, levelheaded enough to actually _plan_. Miles was a bit incensed at that—he _had_ a plan. Burning everything in his path to the ground was a _perfectly_ good plan. Bass' plan was, admittedly, a lot better. The need for subterfuge bothered him, but the situation on the far ends of the republic was a bit tenuous. If Captain Neville had been stationed in Pittsburgh, or at least closer to the capital than Chicago, Miles would have been able to burn everything to the ground. Since he wasn't, though, he couldn't risk alerting anyone outside of his handpicked troops to the nature of the mission.

Miles left ten days after receiving the journal, leading his troops. According to the official report, it was a census of the towns on the outer edges of the republic. Unofficially, everyone knew that something had put Miles Matheson on the warpath. No one wanted to be the poor bastard that had irked him so badly.

The general drove his troops hard. There was no way he was wasting any more time in finding his family. The journal was buried at the bottom of his saddlebag. The hand-drawn portraits of the two children Captain Neville suspected were his niece and nephew were in his breast pocket. Miles didn't—_couldn't_—lose those.

They were all he had left of his family.

_Three_

When the blackout had hit, Miles had waited six weeks before making the decision to go AWOL. Bass had come with him. Ben, Rachel and the kids were all either of them had left. It had taken a while, but they'd made it to Chicago. Ben and his family were long gone by then.

They had Jeremy at that point. Bass had started his habit of collecting strays, and had started introducing Miles as "General Matheson" whenever he got new ones. Once in a while, Miles made noises about strangling his best friend for starting that shit in the first place. He hadn't done anything though—the more his name was out there, the greater his chance of finding his family. It hadn't helped, until four years after the blackout.

Miles had had no idea that Rachel had abandoned Ben and the kids. She'd told him, after she'd surrendered, that Danny had fallen deathly ill; Charlie was in the same way, and Ben… Well, Ben still had his gun. Miles had no idea why Ben even _had_ a gun, considering that he was a pacifist of the worst order. It had been a little _too_ convenient, that story.

He'd believed her, though.

And now, almost a decade later, his niece and nephew had resurfaced. They were in danger. And he had to find them.

Soon.

_Four_

Travelling was too slow. Ever since the blackout, Miles had bemoaned the loss of cars. Before the power had gone out, he'd been able to make the trip from Parris Island to Chicago in eighteen hours. (He'd almost gotten pinched for speeding on a number of times. Luckily, the state troopers who'd caught him speeding had been turned on by a good-looking man in uniform. Otherwise he would have spent a _lot_ more time in jail…) These days, the trip took months.

Miles pushed his men as hard as he could, but even they had to stop to rest. Every time they did, the only thing the general could think of were Charlie and Danny. Were they getting something to eat? Had that prick, Caleb, beaten them again? Did they have enough firewood? Had someone given them new shoes? (Miles felt guilty about the new boots he was breaking in, and the thick wool socks protecting his feet from blisters.) Had Charlie and Danny _ever_ gone to bed with full bellies? Had they ever received affection from someone? Had _anyone_ tried to care for them?

The trip from Philadelphia to Sylvania Estates took a month and a half.

Miles made it in five weeks.

_Five_

The garrison in Chicago was based out an old high school on the outskirts of the city. Travel to the heart of Chicago took eight hours, with good weather and favorable road conditions. Travel to Sylvania Estates took two. It was pathetic, dusty, and one of the poorest areas of the republic. Miles felt no guilt at exiling Captain Neville here. (He did feel guilty about having to promote the man so he could, legally, take the position. It was a slap in the face to an already humiliating punishment. A promotion, just so they could rid themselves of the man.)

Captain Neville was in his office, working on paperwork. Miles shoved the captain's secretary out of the room and sat down in the chair for visitors. Just because he could, he put his feet on Neville's desk. Mud ruined several of the reports the captain had been looking over.

Neville leapt to his feet, saluting as soon as he realized who'd just muddied his paperwork.

"Sir!"

Miles waved the man away. "Where are they?" he asked, pulling the portraits out of his pocket. The paper—heavy, expensive cardstock, from before the blackout—was wrinkled and fraying at the edges. He'd taken them out every night, trying to keep the memory of what they looked like now alive. Charlie and Danny were waifish, pale, and so very thin…

They took after Rachel more than Ben, but Miles could see Ben looking out at him. Their eyes were Matheson eyes—stubborn, unyielding, and unable to give in to anything.

He was worried about them. Two children with eyes like that, who looked so…

If anything had happened to them, Miles knew he'd burn that village to the ground after _personally_ slaughtering every man, woman and child who'd lived there.

"I saw the boy four days ago," Neville said, taking the portrait in question from Miles. "He was stealing food again."

Miles raised an eyebrow. "Explain. Now."

_Six_

It took two days to organize the raid on Sylvania Estates. Miles spent it getting progressively drunker and more irritable as the hours dragged on with nothing happening. The member of the garrison who'd drawn the portraits of Miles' family produced four more of each child, just to keep the general from beheading the first person who breathed wrong near him.

Miles, for once, also began making plans that involved more thinking and a lot less "how many people do I have to kill before I get my way?". There were a large number of laws of the Monroe Republic that had to be changed, removed entirely, or even just implemented. He and Bass had talked about what they'd like to do with the Republic, but nothing had ever really come to fruition. There were so many other things that took over…

He had a reason, though. Two of them. The new portraits were more detailed, and Miles' heart broke every time he saw the pictures Corporal Templeton had produced. Charlie looked gaunt and hungry in hers. Her blonde hair was thicker than Rachel's, but it hung in lank strands around her face. She'd apparently made an effort to tie it back, although it looked like the ribbon she'd used had been a strip torn from an old blanket. Danny looked just as starved, and his hair flopped into his eyes, which were just as painfully blue and innocent as Charlie's were.

How either of them could come out of the hell that had produced the injuries Captain Neville had described and still look so innocent, Miles didn't know.

The garrison's quartermaster refused to give him any whiskey by lunch the second day.

_Seven_

Miles hated wearing his full dress uniform. It was itchy, it clung too tightly all over, and it made it impossible to slouch or relax. It was also black. The color was the only thing going for the uniform. He'd have burned it otherwise, just so he could wear his campaign uniform every day. The green uniform was _much_ more comfortable…

It impressed the peasants, though. So did the evil horse.

He hated the horse he rode during parades. The feeling was mutual, thankfully. The evil horse was large, and—Miles had to admit—it _was_ damn impressive when he was in full dress and riding the stallion. Large, imposing, black… Well, he didn't have any proof, but Miles was pretty sure he'd made more than a few people piss themselves when he'd rode passed them on official business. Charging them, on the other hand…

The peasants in the piddling little village needed to have the fear of the militia struck in their horrible, black little hearts.

He'd wear the damn uniform, with all the medals Bass had insisted he wear. If this all worked out, he'd have to forgive Bass a good number of sins.

Miles took one last look at himself in the mirror and straightened his jacket. Time to go terrorize a few peasants.

_Eight_

Miles looked around the village and couldn't keep a sneer off his face. It was pathetic. The houses had seen better days, there was a sheep pen in the middle of the village, and people were growing corn in their front yards. How…

He couldn't find any words to accurately describe the _picturesque_ village he'd found himself in. His soldiers were busy tearing the place apart, looking for two small children who'd probably fled in terror. Miles wouldn't blame them. The soldiers blundering about were used to dealing with Rebels and hardened criminals, not two children who were starved and scared. They were all family men with children of their own, but they were on the job. The job meant they had to be stone cold bastards, not fathers who dropped everything for their kids.

The headman of the village was locked in a heated argument with Captain Neville. That was Tom's problem. He was soft. He was always looking for some way to reason with these…_insects_. Not that Miles could blame the captain, at the moment. Finding Charlie and Danny was his first priority. Not killing the scum that had terrorized them. He so badly wanted to kill the man…

Neville had obviously gotten through to the prick, because he sent two soldiers off to one of the nicer-looking homes. Miles watched the alleys on either side of the house, wondering if his niece and nephew would rabbit and try to flee to another safe haven. From what Neville had told him, the siblings were afraid of loud noises and adults. They were also liable to flee at top speed, given the chance.

And….

_There!_ Miles pulled on the reigns, trying to catch sight of the two blonde heads he'd seen rushing away from the house currently being searched. They'd…

They'd vanished again.

_Nine_

Finding where the siblings had vanished to was easy. It was a house on the edge of the cul-de-sac. The home was well-maintained and looked like it also doubled as the village school. Miles would place good money on his niece and nephew never having even set foot in any type of schoolroom. Charlie, at least, might know how to read. Ben loved reading too much not to pass it on to his daughter. Charlie, his little duck, would have taught Danny.

…He was being too optimistic. Given what he'd heard and read, he doubted people would have let Charlie continue on that path. Couldn't have your fucking _slaves_ reading and having ideas now, could you. Miles growled as he dismounted, stalking over to the door.

If the prick who owned this house kept him from his niece and nephew, Miles would gut him. Slowly.

With a _spoon_.

The door opened on the first knock. Miles studied the man and felt his lip curl back in a sneer. Here was a man who'd never gone hungry in his life. The bastard had probably profited off of Charlie and Danny's suffering too. His hand twitched towards the sword strapped to his waist. He wanted blood. Lots of it. He wanted to fucking _bathe_ in these peoples' blood, if he could get away with it.

"Haven't seen 'em," the fat man said, a little too casually. He leaned against the door, looking unconcerned. He was sweating, badly. Miles had to admire him for his courage. He was stupid, but courageous. Not many people would stand up to him. Even here, on the edges of the empire he and Bass had built, people still trembled in fear at the mere _mention_ of his name. And yet…

"Bring. Them. Out. _Now_," Miles growled, hand tightening on his sword.

"And give them to the devil?" The fat man snorted. "They're already in hell. I'm not going to let you make it worse."

Miles had been hit with a baseball bat before. It'd hurt then, and it hurt like hell now.

He didn't even pay attention as his soldiers dragged the fat man into the square where the rest of the villagers were being held. As soon as the way was clear, he walked into the house.

"Pl…please don't hurt us…"

_Ten_

Miles sat on a chair one of his men had taken from Caleb's house, sipping tea out of an antique cup. He knew, from Bass' stupid obsession with antiques and his Home and Garden shit, that it was expensive. It had probably been looted from a museum or something following the blackout.

He saw Caleb's wife sneaking looks at him as he used the china. Miles smirked and, just because he could, smashed the cup on the hard-packed ground. She flinched. He ground the shards under his boot, just to watch her squirm.

Corporal Templeton handed him another cup, full of fresh tea. It was pretty good. Miles sighed and set the cup on the table, also taken from one of the houses. He'd take the set back for Bass. Stupid Home and Garden shit…

"How's the tea, Charlie?" he asked, looking over at his niece.

Charlie looked at him, blue eyes wide and full of fear. There was a glimmer of curiosity there too, though. That's what made him a little less homicidal. If she was still curious, then the village hadn't broken her. Miles would wait all day for a response if he had to. He had his little duck and his future Marine.

She chewed on her lower lip, obviously (hopefully) searching for a reply.

"It…it's very nice, sir," she whispered. She looked up at him, a shy—if rather faint—smile on her face.

Miles raised an eyebrow as she cleared her throat. She tried to say something, squeaked, and shook her head.

After a few minutes, she stood up and walked over to him. Danny trailed behind her, clinging to one of her hands. They looked like little ducklings. It was cute. Heartbreaking, in a way, but cute.

Charlie cupped her hands around his ear. Miles leaned a little closer, brow furrowing in curiosity.

"Are…are you the prince from the picture book, sir?"

_Eleven_

Miles looked at the book in his hands, feeling tears welling up in his eyes for the first time in years. Charlie was crouched against one of the far walls, holding Danny close to her side. She was crying hard, although she wasn't making a sound. Danny, barely twelve years old, was glaring at him through the gap in their arms. He had to admire the kid's guts.

But to the book…

Ben had been the sentimental one. Rachel had never really been personal, or one for personal effects. Ben had been the one who took pictures of everything. Including, Miles realized, pictures of his baby brother and his brother's best friend in their uniforms. It was easy to see why Charlie, who'd never _really_ been exposed to the Marine Corps, would mistake him and Bass for princes.

Miles wiped at his eyes, cursing the amount of dust in the fucking shack his niece and nephew had been forced to live in. The photographs in this book were the most precious things in the world, after Charlie and Danny. He looked at the siblings, who were still cowering against the far wall.

He knelt down so he was closer to eye-level with them.

"Charlie, would you and your brother like to live in a castle?"

He wasn't a prince, but he and Bass could damn well give these kids the life they _should_ have had.

Even if it killed him.

_Twelve_

Miles waited until the next day to make any more plans concerning Sylvania Estates. Charlie and Danny, for the first time in nearly ten years, were sleeping in real beds. He'd tried to get them to take separate rooms, but that had stopped after they'd broken down in tears and hadn't stopped until he'd rescinded and shown them to one of the rooms that hadn't been looted.

He woke up the next morning, refreshed and feeling slightly less homicidal than he had yesterday morning. Not by much, but it was enough. He'd made the villagers spend the night sleeping outside, and had specifically ordered the men to "forget" to feed them.

They were going to suffer just a little longer while he and his family had breakfast, and then he'd deal with them.

It was closing in on midday when the last of the loot had been loaded up. Charlie and Danny were seated comfortably on a pile of blankets in one of the wagons, close to falling asleep again. Miles made sure they were secure before sending the wagon out with a heavy guard. He wasn't going to lose them again.

Finally, when he was sure the wagon was out of sight, he turned to Captain Neville.

"Everyone under the age of eighteen has now been conscripted into the Monroe Militia. Anyone who is older than eighteen is to be executed. Burn the village to the ground."

Neville nodded, face tight.

"Sir," he said. "If I could make one slight suggestion?"

Miles growled impatiently, but Neville didn't even flinch.

"The mayor—Caleb Jackson?" Neville gestured to the man, who looked like he was two seconds from pissing himself in fear. "Have him sent to a work camp. I hear the conditions have slowly been deteriorating. Did you know it was too expensive to maintain separate barracks for anyone convicted of crimes against children…? Such a shame, too…"

A savage grin split Miles face in two. "And when you're done with that, I want you to _personally_ deliver the report to me in Philadelphia," Miles growled.

It wasn't what he wanted to do, but it was justice.

Ben would be so proud of him.

- o – o -

So, what did you think? Good? Bad? Is Miles awesome or what? Drop a line and let me know!


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